


Atlantis

by SpoonyLupin



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Cheesy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpoonyLupin/pseuds/SpoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Harry’s final vision of his mother, he runs to Doyle for help.  That, however, only complicates matters when things between them take a sudden romantic turn.  Not only is Harry left questioning his mental state, but now he and Doyle have to figure out their feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ehrich

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by David Hoselton, David Titcher, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Harry Houdini, and various publishers including, but not limited to, FOX, Global TV, and ITV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s note: The idea for this story came to me just after the news of the show’s cancelation broke, and I sat down and wrote the majority of this first chapter. A lot of Harry’s reactions and behavior here are how I felt upon hearing the news, and this is how I got a lot of my frustrations out. I hope you enjoy!

Harry didn’t know where else to go. Doyle had retired to his stateroom rather early as per his doctor’s orders to rest as much as possible. Harry hated to disturb him, but he needed Doyle. He needed Doyle now more than ever.

Harry made his way through the narrow, winding halls of the ship, feeling vaguely like he was drunk, even though he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol that evening. He was suddenly wishing he had, because maybe at least then he could blame what he had seen on his own inebriation.

Still, Harry found himself weaving back and forth through the corridors. He kept putting his hands up against the walls to steady himself, making quite a few loud banging sounds against them. Some of the poor people who were in their rooms probably thought there was some sort of fight going on outside.

But no, it was only the great Harry Houdini, drunk on nothing at all except the thought that he was going mad.

When Harry finally reached Doyle’s door, he lurched against it almost painfully. Was it Harry’s imagination, or was the ship tossing and turning more than usual that evening? But Harry knew it wasn’t that. He hadn’t felt at all unsteady on his feet until after he’d seen his dead mother yet again and then looked down at the note in his shaking hand.

**IF YOU CAN READ THIS  
YOU ARE NOT DREAMING**

But he had to have been dreaming, because there was no other explanation. Except the fact that at long last, he was finally going insane. Just as he had feared. Just as he had told Doyle in the Indian village.

Harry raised his fist to begin pounding on Doyle’s door, but then he stopped, his hand frozen above his head. Doyle would only use this to try and further convince Harry that there was an afterlife. Did Harry really want to go through that? Doyle keeping him up until all hours, telling Harry why everything he believed he was wrong.

But Doyle was his best friend. That was something Harry had very much realized after the other man had been shot. After it felt like the world had fallen out from underneath him. Harry couldn’t remember ever being so terrified than when he thought Doyle might not survive. Harry knew then just how much Doyle meant to him, and Harry couldn’t imagine going to anyone else with this. He just wanted his best friend, even if Doyle might be an insufferable ass about it all.

Harry finally descended his fist upon the door, pounding against it over and over again. It vaguely occurred to Harry that he might give Doyle a heart attack in the process along with rousing him from his sleep, but Harry couldn’t quite control himself. Even after Harry heard some faint noises from behind the door, indicating that Doyle was coming, he still didn’t stop knocking. Harry kept right on pummeling the door with his fist, almost as if it was the door’s fault that Harry was going crazy.

A few moments later, the door finally opened, leaving Harry to stagger heavily into the room. Harry took several hurried steps across the floor, trying to find his balance. He finally settled on throwing himself at the bed, reaching out his hands and catching himself on the mattress. Harry fell to the side almost gracefully, getting himself into a sitting position. Instead of looking at Doyle, however, Harry only buried his head in his hands.

“Have you been drinking?” Doyle asked carefully, concernedly, closing the door behind him.

Harry could feel the other man’s eyes on him, searching, suspicious. Harry shook his head without even looking up. “I’m losing my mind,” Harry said in between sobs. He finally looked up at Doyle, his eyes wide and desperate.

There was Doyle, dressed in his ridiculous nightshirt and leaning on his cane. If Harry was in the right frame of mind, he would have made some smartass comment about how that cane really complimented the nightshirt. As it was, Harry had other things on his mind than thinking up insults. Which meant that he was really messed up.

“What?” Doyle asked, taking a few limping steps towards him. “What’s happened?”

Harry didn’t know how to say it. Here he was, face to face with the only person on the face of the earth he would want to share this part of himself with, and he couldn’t form the words. They were completely lost on him.

“Wait…” Doyle said slowly, halting his progress across the room. “You didn’t…?” Doyle began to ask, but then he stopped. Realization dawned on his face, and he knew. Harry knew he knew. Doyle wasn’t his best friend for nothing.

Harry nodded once, twice. “I was sitting up on deck,” Harry said around a gulp for air. “Then I realized that someone sat down in the deck chair next to me. I…I turned my head to see who it was and…” Harry broke off, still not able to form the words.

Doyle blinked at him, then he asked slowly, cautiously, “You saw her, didn’t you?”

“ _Don’t_ even say it,” Harry snapped, but then he immediately regretted it.

He didn’t know why he was getting angry at Doyle. He didn’t mean to. After all, Doyle was the only person he had in the universe he could talk to about this, and the last thing he wanted to do was push Doyle away over it. But this was what Harry had been doing since he met the man – trying to push him away. It was what he did to all new acquaintances. It was Harry’s defense mechanism to keep people from getting too close, and yet, here Doyle was, still by his side. Harry supposed that was why he liked Doyle so much; the man didn’t ever give up on Harry, no matter how much Harry might act like a pain in the ass.

“I didn’t,” Doyle said quietly. He paused for several seconds before taking a few more shambling steps towards Houdini. “I just…I was asking if that’s what happened.”

Harry gave one single nod again. “I saw her.” He knew he didn’t even have to specify who ‘her’ was.

“Are…are you sure you didn’t fall asleep?” Doyle tried, asking the most obvious question in the world. “Perhaps you were dreaming.”

Harry almost felt like crying. This was probably Doyle’s dream come true – to use this opportunity to try and prove his own misguided beliefs in the afterlife, in ghosts, in all sorts of ridiculous things. But yet, like the friend he was, Doyle was trying his best to help Harry find a reasonable explanation for this. When Harry was down, Doyle didn’t kick him, like so many people probably would have; he was helping him, and Harry couldn’t love him any more for that.

Harry shook his head miserably. His hand still shaking, he reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He withdrew the note, the test to see whether or not he was dreaming. Harry opened it up, displaying it for Doyle to see.

“I read this,” Harry said, looking back up to Doyle again, his eyes desperate. “It was the first thing I did.”

He was almost waiting for Doyle to come up with some logical explanation to prove that he wasn’t going crazy. But that thought was even _crazier_. That wasn’t what Doyle did. Doyle was always the very first one to subscribe to unexplainable things. This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes standing before him here. That thought caused Harry to snort in amusement.

This only made Doyle raise an eyebrow at him in concern.

“Please tell me I’m not going insane,” Harry pleaded.

Doyle opened his mouth to reply, but then seemed to think better of his response. He used both hands to lean on his cane before shuffling over to Harry. Doyle took a moment to settle himself on the mattress next to Harry, letting out a heavy breath at the exertion. After setting his cane down on the floor, Doyle turned to Harry and finally said, “You’re not going insane.”

“I didn’t see her ghost either!” Harry snapped before Doyle could so much as allude to the supernatural.

Unperturbed by Harry’s sudden outburst, Doyle calmly replied, “I didn’t say you did.”

“Although you would love that, wouldn’t you?” Harry asked, his voice softer than it had been.

“I’m just trying to help you figure this out,” Doyle said. Then he tried, “Are you _sure_ we can’t read in our dreams?” He reached out for the note which Harry still held in his hands. He grasped the piece of paper in between his thumb and index finger, but he didn’t pull it out of Harry’s grasp. “Just because this Austrian doctor says we can’t, it doesn’t mean he’s right.”

“I mean, I don’t _think_ we can,” Harry said, squinting in thought. “I had a dream when we were in LaPier. I tried to read the note then and couldn’t. It was just a blur.”

“Could just be the power of suggestion,” Doyle said.

This caused Harry to frown down at the note in their grasp. He knew Doyle wanted nothing more than to tell him that this was definitive proof of the supernatural, but he wasn’t, and it confused Harry a little.

“Why are you doing this?” Harry asked. When he looked back up at Doyle he clarified, “Why are you trying to help me come up with a rational explanation for this? Because I know what you really want to tell me.”

“Because you’re my friend,” Doyle replied immediately. “When you come banging down my door when it’s nearly midnight, almost falling down out of concern for your mental health, I’m not going to feed you a bunch of things you don’t want to hear. I reckon that’s not what you need right now, is it? You need someone to hear you out.”

“So the next time you get on one of your supernatural kicks, I’m to pretend like I think I’m losing my mind again,” Harry teased, nodding. “Got it.”

“I’m trying to be serious here,” Doyle said tiredly. “Do you want my help figuring this out or not?”

“Yes,” Harry said, and he was aware of just how desperate he probably sounded. He knew that when the topic of the supernatural came up, it was not a good time to try and press Doyle’s buttons. Especially when Doyle was blatantly ignoring all of his beliefs to try and help Harry, but Harry just couldn’t censor himself sometimes. This, more than ever, was the time when Harry really needed control his instincts. “I do,” Harry said. He stared at Doyle for a long time before he admitted, “I wouldn’t have come to you otherwise.”

“So as I was saying,” Doyle said, immediately getting back to the topic at hand, “how do we know for sure that we can’t read in dreams? Because an Austrian doctor said so? How do we know he’s right? How do we know everyone’s dreams aren’t completely different? What he may or may not be able to do in his dreams may not apply to everyone.”

“But I told you,” Harry said, giving the note a small shake, “I had a dream where I couldn’t read this. Seems pretty convincing if you ask me.”

“Again,” Doyle said, “that doesn’t mean anything. Like I said, it could simply be the power of suggestion. Isn’t that something you’re big on?”

Harry couldn’t reply. Besides, he really didn’t need to. They were both well aware of where Harry stood on the matter, and he knew he didn’t need to repeat himself. It occurred to Harry just how well Doyle knew him, and that was something Harry hadn’t had for a long time. Not from a friend at least. From his mother, yes, but it had been years since he’d had a friend that knew him this well. How on earth had Harry gotten so lucky to have found a friend like Doyle without even trying?

And Doyle wasn’t even rubbing it in his face that this was definitive proof of the supernatural. That was what really got to Harry. He could almost see the restraint Doyle was exercising here, doing his best not to make Harry feel any worse than he already did. Doyle was respecting him and trying his best to come to a conclusion that was right for Harry. Not one that suited Doyle himself, but one that Harry could live with. Every bone in Doyle’s body was probably disagreeing with that, but…Doyle was being his friend. Harry didn’t think he could ever properly express to the man how much that meant to him.

“I don’t know if you’d necessarily be reading this anyway,” Doyle mused, still staring down at the note in Harry’s hands.

“What?” Harry asked. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he had almost jumped when Doyle spoke his next words.

“You already know what this says,” Doyle said, reaching out to grasp a corner of the piece of paper again. “You may not necessarily be _reading_ it, but you may be _remembering_ what it says.”

“I don’t quite follow.” Harry’s mind was swimming with everything that had happened, and he couldn’t understand where Doyle was going with this.

“I’m not convinced you weren’t sleeping up on deck just now,” Doyle said. “You said you tried to read the note, and you did. But what if you didn’t actually read it? What if you were simply remembering what it looked like and what it said?” Doyle immediately glanced to the desk across the room where he still had his writing supplies set out from starting his new Holmes book. “I have an idea.”

Harry still didn’t quite know what Doyle meant, but he watched the other man pick his cane up from the floor. Normally, Harry would have told him to stay put, to let him get whatever was needed, but Harry stayed quiet. He kept staring down at the note in his hands, wondering if he truly was going crazy or not. Sometimes, Harry realized, he needed to let people take care of him.

Doyle slowly made his way across the room to the desk, leaning over to pick up his fountain pen from where he had left it on the blotting pad. He dipped it into the ink well, scribbling something on a piece of paper. When he straightened up, Doyle turned to look at Harry again, taking his time to fold the paper neatly in between his fingers. After a moment, Doyle hobbled back over to Harry, holding this new note out for the younger man.

Harry took it, a questioning look on his face. When he began to open it, Doyle stopped him, closing his the fingers of one hand over Harry’s.

“Don’t read it now,” Doyle said. “You don’t know what it says, so there’s no possible way your memory of it can influence you in a dream. If you see her again and you’re not sure whether you’re dreaming or not, try to read my note. If you can’t, then we’ll know. It’s the Doyle test.” Doyle plucked the old note out of Harry’s other hand, crumbling it up in his fist and setting it down on the bedside table.

This caused Harry to smile, but then he asked, “What if I still can’t?” He then carefully placed Doyle’s new note in his jacket pocket. “Then we’ll know that I was fully conscious tonight when I saw her.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Once again, Doyle slowly lowered himself to the mattress next to Harry, letting out a heavy breath when his weight was off his feet again. Laying his cane down on the floor, Doyle turned to Harry once more and said, “First things first. We find out if you really can’t read in your dreams. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Sighing heavily, Harry leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He buried his head in one hand and said, “I still can’t believe you’re doing this. You probably want to laugh at me so hard right now for trying to find some logical explanation for this.”

“I would never do that,” Doyle said. He reached out a hand, gently laying it on Harry’s shoulder. When Harry made no move to shake it off, Doyle squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “We may not always see eye to eye, but I told you, you’re my friend. Friends don’t do that sort of thing to each other when one of them is so upset. I’m going to help you figure this out. If that means disproving so many of my theories, then so be it. That’s not important right now. What’s important is helping you get to the bottom of this.” He paused before adding, “If the situations were reversed, I hope you’d be doing the same and not using this to tease me mercilessly.”

Harry looked back over his shoulder, a small smirk playing at his lips. “I’d probably think about it.”

“But would you?” Doyle asked seriously. “Would you really tease me if I was this distraught about something?”

Harry bit at his bottom lip before shaking his head vehemently. “I could never do that to you, Doc.”

“Nor could I,” Doyle replied. “You’re not alone in this. You chose to confide this in me, even when I doubted you ever would. The last thing I would want is for you to feel like you’ve made a mistake in doing so. I want you to be able to trust me, Harry.” Silence fell between them for several moments before Doyle very quietly added, “Ehrich.”

Harry blinked over his shoulder at Doyle. Doyle could see him swallowing, like he was trying to work up the courage to form words. Finally, Harry asked, “Why did you call me that?”

Doyle shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, trying to gage Harry’s reaction. “It just felt right.”

Harry smiled, but it was something in between happiness and pain. “It’s okay. It’s nice to hear sometimes. Harry is a character, a persona. So many people love him, but…they don’t know who he really is. Most of them don’t care to learn who he is underneath all of that bravado and brashness.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Doyle said, “but most of the time, you don’t _let_ most people see that side of him. That’s part of the function of all of that bravado and brashness, isn’t it?”

Harry straightened up so that he could look Doyle more directly in the eye. Doyle’s hand fell away from Harry’s back now, but their shoulders were touching. They were impossibly close, closer than Harry could remember them ever being before, but neither one of them made any effort to change that.

“Part of it,” Harry whispered. “It’s also there, I think, to see who cares enough to dig through all of that. Not a lot of people do.”

“I didn’t think I cared to at first,” Doyle said just as quietly. “You were such an insufferable ass. Still are, actually.”

He let out a soft breath of laughter which Harry felt brush across his cheek. It occurred to Harry that at least one of them should be embarrassed by this recent turn of events, but still, neither of them moved or tried to change the subject. And Harry didn’t want them to.

“So what’s keeping you from running in the other direction out of frustration?” Harry asked, finding his eyes inexplicably drawn to Doyle’s mouth, to the way his moustache played about his lips.

“I don’t know,” Doyle said absently, seemingly as distracted as Harry. His eyes went upwards, towards Harry’s dark curls. “You…intrigue me. For reasons that I can’t even begin to figure out.”

“I intrigue a lot of people,” Harry said proudly. “Doesn’t mean any of them want to get to know me once they find out what an insufferable ass I really am.”

“But you’re not,” Doyle said. He made a sudden movement with his hand, lifting it up from the mattress. Harry almost thought Doyle meant to lay it on his shoulder again, but then Doyle withdrew it. He brought it closer to his chest, then settled in down on his lap, almost like he couldn’t figure out what to do with it. “Underneath all of that,” Doyle finally continued, “you really do care about people. You just said so yourself that Harry is a character. But Ehrich…he’s quite capable of developing feelings for people, despite Harry’s best efforts to the contrary.”

“And do you know how many people on this earth are currently aware of that fact?” Harry asked. Then he found his eyelids slowly drooping, like he was sleepy, but he wasn’t. In fact, he was suddenly very much awake. Doyle shook his head and Harry answered, “Two. One of which is in this room with me right now.”

Harry suddenly leaned forward, closing his eyes the rest of the way and pressing his lips against Doyle’s. Harry felt Doyle take a sharp intake of breath out of surprise, but he didn’t bother to break the kiss. Doyle’s hands then came up to grasp at Harry’s wrists. Harry took this as a sign that his actions were welcome and tried to deepen the kiss, but then Doyle suddenly broke it.

“Harry,” Doyle said, pulling away and breathing heavily. “You’re in shock.”

Harry froze, his breath coming in hard gasps as well. He stared at Doyle, as if not quite believing what he had just done. Then all at once, he tore his wrists out of Doyle’s grasp and stood up from the bed. He paced across the floor, running a hand through his unruly curls. Fixing his eyes at some point on the floor and placing his hands on his hips, he said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Silence met his ears for several seconds. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to imagine just what sorts of thoughts were running through Doyle’s mind at the moment. What Doyle must think of him. What Harry thought of himself.

When the seconds stretched out and Doyle still said nothing, Harry said, “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

Harry waited, wishing and hoping that Doyle would tell him that it was all right, that the gesture hadn’t been unwelcome, that he was just surprised. When still nothing came, Harry muttered, “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Without waiting for any further response, Harry quickly closed the distance to the door and wrenched it open.

“Harry!” came Doyle’s voice behind him, but Harry didn’t stop.

Doyle was suddenly calling him by his stage name again, and Harry didn’t know why that bothered him at that moment, but it did. If Doyle had really wanted to stop him, he would have called him Ehrich. Not Harry.

Not Harry.

The only good thing about Doyle’s current injuries was that Harry would be long gone, lost in the twisting halls of the ship, before Doyle ever even got up from the bed.

_To be continued…_


	2. Half-Truth

Harry ended up wandering around the ship for most of the night. He knew that Doyle would have most likely gone to Harry’s stateroom to try and find him and talk things through, and Harry wanted to avoid that at all costs. It was ironic. Just a few hours before, the only person Harry had wanted to see was Doyle, and now the thought of being face to face with him ever again made Harry feel sick.

When it came right down to it, however, Harry wasn’t sure why. Or maybe he was. All Harry could think about at the moment were Doyle’s actions after Harry had kissed him – how Doyle had pulled away, chalked it up to shock, and then the painful silence that had met Harry’s ears. _That_ was what made Harry feel ill. Like Doyle had been so disgusted by the whole thing that he’d barely been able to string two words together.

On the other hand, Harry knew that he should be disgusted over what he had done too. But he wasn’t. For that brief moment when Harry’s lips had brushed against Doyle’s, it had felt exhilarating to Harry. He had _liked_ it. He had liked it a _lot_. Even more so than when he had kissed Adelaide. And that was such an inappropriate thing to feel, Harry couldn’t even fathom it. What in the hell was wrong with him?

This was Doyle. His _friend_. His _male_ friend. A man who wore nightshirts to bed and who wrote about that silly detective in his spare time. It didn’t even make sense for Harry to be feeling these things. It was probably simply the byproduct of his already unhinged mind, Harry decided, even though deep down, he knew that wasn’t even a half-truth.

When the very first streaks of sunlight splintered the sky and began blazing an orange trail across the open ocean, however, Harry realized just how tired he was. All he really wanted to do was sleep and to forget that this entire awful night had ever happened. At least for a little while. Harry only hoped that if he returned to his stateroom now, Doyle wouldn’t be there waiting for him.

Harry was in luck. When he got to the door of his room, Doyle was nowhere to be seen. Harry immediately unlocked his door and closed it before he could possibly be spotted. He pulled off his tuxedo coat and threw it over the back of the desk chair, not even taking the time to properly fold it or hang it up like he normally would. Harry undid his bowtie next, letting that drop to the floor at his feet. He then set about unbuttoning his shirt, but a moment later, his eyes settled upon his bed. Harry tiredly lurched forward, falling forward onto the mattress. He decided that some things were better left until later. At the moment, he just wanted to sleep and forget.

Closing his eyes, Harry let sleep claim him, falling into the peaceful abyss of not knowing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Harry awoke sometime later to a harsh pounding on the door of his stateroom. Groaning loudly, Harry slowly opened his eyes, then cringed away from the bright mid-morning sunshine beaming in through his small, porthole window. Reaching up to wipe away the trail of drool on his cheek, he realized just how very dazed and sluggish he felt. It was almost as if he had a hungover, even though he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since before Doyle had been shot. Harry had been much too thankful for Doyle’s survival to even think about trying to numb anything at all with booze these last few months.

Then Harry’s eyes settled on the cabinet across from the bed. Several bottles of alcohol stood here, along with glasses that the ship had provided. Harry hadn’t so much as touched them since he’d been onboard, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to pour himself a glass and down it. To try and make his memories of the previous evening disappear.

Harry became aware that the knocking on his door had become more urgent, which was followed by a soft voice calling, “Harry?”

Of all the people that could have been rousing him sleep, it had to be Doyle. How had this even happened? How had Harry gone from desperately needing Doyle the night before to not wanting to see him at all?

Turning his head, Harry stared at the door, but made no move to get up. Perhaps if he pretended like he was still asleep, Doyle would leave him be.

“Harry?” came Doyle’s voice again, a little louder this time. “If you’re in there, will you please open the door?”

Silence fell and for a brief moment, Harry thought Doyle had left. But then the knocking started anew.

“Please?” Doyle asked. “I…I just want to know you’re okay.”

Harry let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Even after everything that had happened, Doyle was still concerned about him. It certainly didn’t sound like Doyle hated him, even though Harry thought he would be justified if he did. How could Harry leave him standing out there in the hallway, possibly worried sick that something had happened to him?

Pushing himself up from his bed, Harry quickly crossed the room and pulled the door open. “I’m fine,” Harry said curtly. He turned away before he even so much as glanced at Doyle. More and more, the alcohol cabinet on the other side of the room was calling his name.

Harry could hear Doyle slowly making his way into the room behind him. Since he required the use of a cane, it was almost impossible to miss the way Doyle limped across the room. A moment later, the door snapped shut.

Harry uncorked the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass, quickly swallowing a good portion of it.

Neither of them said anything for a long time, but then Doyle finally broke the silence. “I brought you something.”

When Harry turned around to face his friend, he spotted the small tin tucked in the crook of his free arm. Doyle set it down on the desk near the door before leaning heavily on his cane with both hands.

“It’s knedle,” Doyle said quietly. “And you don’t want to know what I had to do to get it. I think the kitchen staff was ready to fetch the master-at-arms to come and haul me away for the trouble I caused.”

Harry only stared at him. He wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to react to Doyle bringing him gifts after what had gone on between them. “Is that supposed to make everything better?” Harry asked coolly, taking another swig of whiskey. He didn’t know why he was being so rude to Doyle when Harry had been the one to ruin things so badly between them in the first place.

“No,” Doyle replied, staring down at the floor. “I just thought…” Doyle trailed off before he glanced up at Harry again. “I wanted you to know that…this doesn’t change things between us.”

_What if I want things to change?_ Harry wondered briefly before he forced those thoughts from his mind. Making his way over to the bed, he plopped down on the edge of it, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes.

“You…had a rough night,” Doyle told him. “I understand you weren’t…thinking.”

Harry scoffed. “Why do people always say that after I kiss them?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” Even though it did, Harry thought. It mattered very much.

For once, Harry wished he could be given more credit than for doing things in the heat of the moment. Maybe he had known exactly what he had been doing when he kissed Doyle. Maybe he had wanted to do that because he felt some insane sort of passion for the other man that he couldn’t quite explain. Maybe somewhere, in the very back of his mind, Harry had hoped that Doyle would share in those ridiculous feelings and would have welcomed the gesture. Maybe he wasn’t alone in this like he always felt. Especially since his mother had died.

“So are we…okay?” Doyle asked tentatively. “I’d hate for you to think that we’re not friends anymore because of what happened.”

Those words were such a relief to Harry, but at the same time, he felt very hurt by them too. The very last thing a part of Harry wanted was to be just “friends” with Doyle. Harry thought he wanted so much more than that, but he supposed he should at least be grateful that Doyle didn’t hate him completely. As difficult as it was being in Doyle’s presence right now, Harry thought the only thing harder would be losing the other man entirely.

“Me too,” Harry admitted, although he wasn’t sure if that was a half-truth or a flat out lie. He really wasn’t sure of much of anything anymore, except for the fact that he was watching the way Doyle’s lips twitched under his moustache. Again. Exactly what had led to him wanting to kiss Doyle in the first place last night.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Harry then gulped down the rest of his whiskey. Setting his glass down on the bedside table with a loud clank, Harry thought about getting up and pouring himself another. Then again, he didn’t want Doyle to think that he was in too much of a shambles right now. Doyle would only assume that it was because of Harry’s concern over his own mental health, and that really couldn’t be further from the truth. Harry was still terrified that he was losing his mind, of course, but his current unprovoked attraction towards Doyle was managing to trump that by and large.

“You’re still in your tuxedo. Did you sleep at all last night?” Doyle asked, sounding concerned. “Did you…see her anymore?”

Harry shook his head, then nodded, not entirely sure which question he was answering. “I slept,” Harry then clarified, “until you woke me up, thank you very much.” He gave Doyle a pointed look.

“Sorry,” Doyle replied sheepishly. “I, on the other hand, didn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Not with the way we left things last night. I had to come and talk to you. After I harassed every member of the kitchen staff for any knedle they might have.” He paused for a very long time before he said, “But you didn’t answer my other question.”

Harry shook his head sharply. “I didn’t see her again, no. So I didn’t have a chance to use the Doyle test.” A small laugh escaped him which he didn’t quite feel.

“Was last night the first time you saw her?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then he shut it again, not entirely sure of the answer to that. “I…I don’t know,” Harry said honestly, glancing up at Doyle in confusion. For the moment, his attraction to Doyle had seemed to fade, almost once again completely consumed by his fear. It only served to make Harry realize just how much he needed Doyle right now. If Harry had to put his romantic feelings on hold for the rest of his life, then that was what he would do. Harry was no stranger to ignoring things he was feeling after all.

Doyle frowned and asked, “What do you mean?”

“You remember my obsessed fan?” Harry said. When Doyle nodded once, Harry said, “I think she might have been my mother. But I don’t know. Did you see her that day? When we were at Falcroft Manor and I saw her in the carriage, the first time I told you about her – did you see her?”

Doyle shook his head. “No, but…I wasn’t really looking. I suppose I should have. We should have tried to catch up to her, question her. I didn’t think about it at the time. I was a little too concerned about other things.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “But my obsessed fan was young – early to mid-twenties, maybe. It didn’t occur to me at the time she might be my mother.” Harry frowned deeply in thought.

“When you saw her last night,” Doyle asked, “did she look like she did when she died?”

Harry nodded. “That was the first time she looked like Ma, and that’s what really scared me. I couldn’t pretend any longer that it was an obsessed fan.”

“But why would they be the same?” Doyle asked in confusion. “How did you arrive at that connection?”

“That dream I had when we were in LaPier,” Harry said, “the one I told you about when I tried to read that note and couldn’t. I was dreaming about my obsessed fan. She was following me, so I decided once and for all to find out who she was. I grabbed her, demanding some answers, and…she morphed into my mother. I don’t know if that meant anything or not.”

“It could have just been a dream,” Doyle suggested. “Facts get twisted into all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in dreams.”

“That’s what I thought at first too, but I haven’t seen my obsessed fan since,” Harry said. “Not at all during the remainder of the entire time we were in the States while you recovered. That was months ago. I came to the conclusion that she had grown tired of following me and had moved on.” Harry stopped and swallowed hard before continuing. “But when I saw my mother last night…I don’t know,” he said a bit desperately. He stared at Doyle anxiously. “What if my obsessed fan was just another product of my fractured mind?”

“I told you,” Doyle said firmly, “you’re not going crazy.”

He hobbled forward to take a seat on the bed next to Harry, just as he had done the night before. That was probably a very bad idea – to be so physically close to one another again – but Harry couldn’t quite get his mind off of his insanity long enough to care.

“You said you hadn’t seen her during the remainder of the time we were in the States,” Doyle pointed out. “Do you know for a fact that your obsessed fan _was_ your mother in a younger form?”

“No,” Harry said. “She could have just been an obsessed fan, sure. My mother had me when she was thirty-three, so I’m not entirely sure what she would have looked like in her early or mid-twenties. And even then, I don’t remember clearly enough what she looked like until she was maybe forty. Even the earliest pictures I have of her aren’t clear enough to really make any sort of comparison to the young woman I saw. It certainly never occurred to me that it could have been my mother, so no, I’m not sure. Of anything.”

“When did your obsessed fan first appear?” Doyle asked. “It was after your mother died, wasn’t it?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was at my mother’s funeral, and then again when I went back to my mother’s grave to say goodbye.”

“And when you saw her at Falcroft Manor, she was in the coroner’s wagon,” Doyle pointed out. “Did you see her any other time?”

Harry shook his head. “Just in my dream.”

“Did anyone else see her?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, the first time I saw her was at my mother’s funeral,” Harry told him. “There were many people around, but whether she was real for any of them or not, I can’t say. It didn’t occur to me then to be all that concerned about her presence. She was watching me rather closely, I’ll admit, but I assumed at the time that she was just a star struck friend of the family.”

“Harry, don’t you see?” Doyle asked. “Every time you’ve seen her, it was around a clear reminder of death – at your mother’s funeral, in the graveyard, in the coroner’s wagon. It’s not unheard of for people in the extreme throes of grief to imagine such things, especially when confronted with such a stark reminder.”

Raising an eyebrow at Doyle, Harry asked, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Doyle considered this before replying. “Yes. It is. It isn’t completely out of the ordinary, and it doesn’t mean you’re going crazy. Only that…you might have been wishing for happier times – when your mother was much younger and healthier. That’s all.”

“But then that doesn’t explain why she appeared again last night,” Harry said, “and much older this time.”

“Assuming they’re the same person, you’ve been rather preoccupied these last few months,” Doyle said warmly. “You’ve been at my side constantly while I recovered.”

Harry didn’t miss the note of gratitude in Doyle’s voice. As much as Doyle had pretended that Harry’s continual presence since being shot was a nuisance, Harry knew he appreciated it in the end. Doyle didn’t have any other family there after all, other than Adelaide. Harry knew Doyle would have been horribly lonely in the States without any familiar faces around while he healed.

“Perhaps that left little time to think about your mother as much,” Doyle continued. “Now that I’m doing much better and we’re going back to England, back to our day to day lives, thoughts of your mother could be returning more prominently.”

“It was a nice distraction, I’ll admit,” Harry said, smiling at Doyle. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. You know that. After my mother, you’re the most important person in this world to me. I had to be there with you until I knew for sure you were going to be okay. But it was almost nice being so preoccupied with your recovery. You’re right, it didn’t leave much time to think about my grief at all. I think I needed to be there with you as much as you needed me there to help you.

“But why would my delusions suddenly change from her being young and vital to her being older?” Harry asked. “That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense to me and the part that confuses me the most. Regardless of whether my obsessed fan was one and the same, why would my mother suddenly appear to me as she was when she died?”

“Maybe that was less a product of grief,” Doyle suggested, “and more a sign of acceptance? As you’ve said, it’s been a while since she passed and since you’ve seen your obsessed fan. This could mean you’re beginning to move on. We’re returning to England, the last place you saw your mother. It could just be reminding you of her. Didn’t you say you were planning on returning to New York with her before she died?”

“Yeah,” Harry said breathlessly as the memory washed over him. “She missed the family, and she wanted to go to Coney Island, and eat saltwater taffy.”

“Being here on a ship could have aroused those memories for you,” Doyle whispered, “of wanting to take her on a boat back to the States. You could have been imagining, fantasizing what it would have been like to still have her by your side on such a journey.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure he believed this, but he said, “Maybe.”

“Listen,” Doyle said, leaning even closer to him, “you have your new test. But if you see either one of them again and you think you are awake, I want you to tell me. You come and get me, no matter what time it is. Pound down my door if you have to. Just a further test, and that way, perhaps I’ll be able to see this obsessed fan of yours, if she exists. You need answers, and I’m going to help you get them.”

Harry suddenly sniffled and wiped away the lone tear that had sprung up on his cheek. “You know,” Harry whispered, “after I saw her last night, I didn’t hesitate to come to you. My best friend. That was all I wanted. Only in hindsight did I realize just how much you could have thrown this in my face, how much you could be using this as an opportunity to force your beliefs on me, and you’re not. So thank you. For making me feel like I can trust you with this.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Doyle protested. “As I said to you last night, it’s what friends do.” He reached up a hand and rested it on Harry’s shoulders.

Harry tried his best to pretend like he didn’t notice how close Doyle was to him again, like it didn’t nearly drive him even crazier with want and need. If Harry was honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to lean into Doyle, to hug the man to him and perhaps try pressing their lips together just like Harry had done last night. But Doyle had made it rather clear that that wasn’t something he wanted, and Harry had to respect that. It wasn’t fair to Doyle for Harry to want or expect anything more than his friend was willing to give. And Harry had to be okay with that. He still needed Doyle as a friend, even if that was so much less than Harry currently wanted. Than Harry was hoping for. Harry would much rather have Doyle as only a friend than not at all, and Harry wasn’t about to push away one of the best things that had ever happened to him with pure selfishness.

Still, Harry was grateful for what he was getting – Doyle’s undivided attention and determination to help him figure this thing out. The creator of Sherlock Holmes had to be good at something after all, right?

Harry pressed his lips together in an effort to stem the snicker that threatened to escape from him. He didn’t dare voice his thoughts to Doyle, not wanting to make things any more awkward between them than they already were. And Harry hated that. He hated that they had reached a point where Harry might have to think about censoring himself around the other man.

Trying his best to push those thoughts from his mind, Harry finally spoke again. “Still, do you have any idea how much I appreciate everything you’re doing?” He glanced up at Doyle, trying his very best to smile. To pretend like he didn’t want to close the remaining distance between them and never let Doyle go. “Even after everything I did, you don’t hate me like I thought you would.”

Doyle shook his head firmly. “Never, Ehrich,” he said. He pulled the younger man closer, hugging him firmly. “I could never hate you.”

Even though every fiber of his being was telling him to pull away, Harry went with it. He squeezed his eyes shut, allowing his forehead to rest on Doyle’s shoulder. Harry thought Doyle could have gotten him to do anything when he called him by his given name, and this time was no exception. It was such an exhilarating feeling to have someone who knew him so well, someone who truly did know who he was deep down underneath that shell Harry had spent such a very long time building up around himself.

He tried to let that be enough.

_To be continued…_


End file.
